As A Little Girl Growing Up In Colombia Now

On Saturdays, my abuela would turn on the radio to Caracol while she shelled habas (fava beans) into a chipped ceramic bowl. I would sit at her feet, my small fingers trying to mimic her speed, and listen to the vallenato accordion weep about lost loves and wayward mules. “This,” she’d say, tapping her temple, “is the map of our soul. Never forget the rhythm.”

But here is what I also learned: resilience is not a grand speech. It is my mother waking up at 4 AM to sell empanadas at the bus terminal so I could have a new notebook. It is my abuela turning a single chicken into a three-course meal (soup, main, and fricasé leftovers). It is every costeño on the Caribbean coast laughing harder than anyone else the day after a hurricane. as a little girl growing up in colombia

And in many ways, she still is. ¿Tienes tu propia historia de crecer en Colombia? Compártela en los comentarios. On Saturdays, my abuela would turn on the

So if you meet a Colombian woman today—if she offers you coffee even if you said no, if she talks about her mom like she’s a saint, if she tears up at the sound of a tiple —now you know why. She was that little girl once. Never forget the rhythm

I never did. Our house in a small pueblo outside Bogotá had no central heating. It didn’t need it. The cold came straight from the páramo , biting my ears as I walked to school in a navy blue skirt and wool tights. But the cold was a friend. It meant my mother would make chocolate santafereño —thick, with cheese melted at the bottom of the mug and a chunk of almojábana floating like a treasure.

Silence was suspicious. Silence meant someone was sick, or the power was out, or—worst of all—that the coffee had run out.

As a little girl, I thought everyone lived like this—everyone knew how to make sancocho from scraps, how to dance mapalé without lessons, how to mourn a loss over tinto and pan de bono by noon, and be dancing by nightfall. Let me walk you through one Sunday.